


the letter

by orphan_account



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Theocentric, finally admitting that he gay, interpret the end how you want i guess, it was way to easy to write from theo's pov and i'm worried, pretty fucking sad tho, theo reflects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-23 22:04:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15616011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Suddenly, it's too much. It's weight that Theo can no longer carry.





	the letter

Boris,

I really don't fucking know what to do.

I really don't fucking know what to say.

Let's start with something my mother used to tell me:

Everything happens for a reason.

I have come to know that it's true.

Perhaps if things went slightly differently I wouldn't be where I am now. If I didn't get suspended, if it didn't start raining, if I had just told her to stay— just for a little longer— then everything would be different. I wouldn't have stolen the painting. I’d be back at the apartment, and she'd be there making me dinner, asking how my day went, discussing normal things, like school or the weekend.

But, it happened, shit happens, things break.

_I_ broke.

That one day in the rain, drenched in what could've been sweat or rain or ash or anything in between, I was broken. I was broken when I awoke after ear piercing screams echoed through my ears like we were trapped in an exceedingly large cave with no way out. I was broken when my father grabbed me by the forearm and dragged me onto an airplane, it's final destination being a place called Las Vegas.

My thirteen-year-old self was a fucking mess.

But still, everything happens for a reason.

And, if these events had never occurred, if I hadn't done things the way I did on that rainy day in New York City, I wouldn't have met you.  
you, with your raven colored hair with ragged curls and foreign face. You, with your scattered freckles and pale, lanky figure. You, with your devilish grin as you made fun of my glasses that day at the bus stop.

You.

I didn't know that my anxiety ridden young self would be running off, skipping school with this mysterious yet scrawny Russian boy. I didn't know that I'd be sipping beer, then chugging vodka, then snorting coke and not worrying about it in the morning.

I didn't fucking know what I was in for.

There were the normal nights, rolling around on my carpet, drunk as hell and unable to walk properly, laughing our asses off at any particular thing one of us said; petting that damned dog until it needed to be rid of our drunk and drugged presence. Nothing seemed wrong, nor right.

But there were the other nights. Ones that make my hands tremble as I write this letter to you now. The nights where the piercing bright light of the moon would illuminate our half naked bodies, grappling around the house before entering the bedroom, not bothering to close the door behind us. there were no boundaries; struggling to remove clothing, unable to satisfy we both very well craved for each other. The roaming, eager hands on each other, anywhere, everywhere. Completely shit faced and more than worth it for the hitch of hot breath in your throat and the sharp, needy friction between our bodies. 

We were totally intimate, you were everything I needed. 

I didn't see that.

There were the harder nights, where I'd lay half awake for hours until a vision would pop into my mind, so incredibly unbearable that I would shriek until my throat was red and sore and my eyes were bloodshot and puffy. But you were always there, immediately throwing your arms around me, murmuring polish nonsense into my chest, your substantial size getting the best of me as I would curl up into your warm, bare chest and drench it in hot tears. 

My cold sweat would drench both of us, as you carefully removed our clothing creating no barrier between us as I held onto you like I had nowhere to go. I would never forget how, in those early mornings, you would believe I had fallen into a deep sleep. Your arms draped around my bare waist, our legs intertwined. You would press hot, needy kisses into my chest, not daring to do such things when I was awake.

Some nights would be worse than others. My chest would tighten and I didn't want to scream or cry. My feet would find their way onto the floor and down the stairs and out the front door and onto the roughly paved street. 

The peace I had felt whilst laying barebacked in the center of the road was dangerously soothing, as I let the dim light of the moon and stars shine on top of me.  
It wasn't long until you were out there too, kneeling beside me, pushing my hair behind my ears and pleading for me to go back inside. I would tell you simply that I wanted to leave, to be free, but you told me that you needed me.

It wasn't until I screamed that I truly understood. I had shouted fiercely into your face, and all you did was grab my shoulders and drag me out of the road and onto the dark sand. I broke, the dam in my chest breaking as I sobbed vigorously into your cold, bare chest. your arms were wrapped around me, holding me close, tracing circles on my back and whispering sweet nothings into my ear that I still very well remember.

_Shh, Potter, you're okay. Is okay, moya lyubov, I've got you now. Is okay, you are safe._

I continued to cry, wanting only to be gone while you only wanted me to stay. I wanted a reason to go, you were the reason to stay.

Everything happens for a reason. Maybe if I had spent more time with my dad, he wouldn't have left the way he did. Maybe I wouldn't have had to leave so soon, so abruptly.  
What hurts me the most is the one time I truly need a miracle, you stayed put.

I begged you to come, wanting to utter three words to convince you to join me but never doing so. Our chests were heaving as we stood on the sidewalk, bickering like the troubled teenagers we were. You told me one more day, but I couldn't wait.

The kiss we shared that night on the sidewalk was different than anything we had ever done before. Neither of us were drunk, shitfaced, high. We were raw, sober, broken and eager and everything in between. Our lips crashed like a plane landing out fireworks exploding; I saw stars and before I knew it it was over. I still remember the look in your eyes as our lips detached, sad and broken and full of sorrow whilst glassy.

I won't forget you, that's what you told me.

Good riddance, I could never forget you.

I couldn't count how many times I imagined you in the years following, whether it was something faint, like mumbling a Russian curse word you had taught me after getting a paper cut, or laying in bed, dreaming of things I shouldn't have been and changing my sheets the next morning.  
The truth is, I never could forget you. I never will.

Things were different in Antwerp. Too much had happened in so little time and in a large span without rest. You took me back to your apartment that night, lifting my spirits by acting like carefree teenagers, chugging vodka and laughing in hysterics.

But our final night in Antwerp was something far more different. I was crying, for some fucked up reason or another. We were sober, a rare occurrence for us. I remember it all, from your hot breath on my tears strained cheek to your sharp belt scraping against my bare stomach as you pulled me closer.

It was like all of our nights together in Vegas put into one. It was grappling around half dressed until we weren't, gasping for air as we wanted no space between our bodies. It was powerful, it was tragic, it was beautiful, it was everything.

But it was nothing.

I woke up, very well remembering the events that had gone down the night before.

Last night.

I sit beside you now, fully clothed as you lay on the messy bed, naked and vulnerable and exposed; snoring and giving me time to write this letter to you.  
I've ripped up my plane ticket to go home, but not because I want to stay. All I want to do is leave. You are a reason to stay, Boris, but you are also every reason to leave.

So, Boris, there's a reason for everything that happens.

Ya lyublyu tebya.

I love you. 

I've loved you ever since we were teenagers, and I love you more than my heart can fucking bear it.

I know, it's way too fucking late. 

And if you feel the same way, it's also way too fucking late for me to find out.

Goodbye, Boris Pavlikovsky.

I hope you'll join me someday.

Love,

Theodore (Potter) Decker.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this was just me at 2:30 in the morning venting, sorry if it's a mess!  
> Also, I don't understand AO3 completely (yet!) but I'm getting there.  
> Expect more from these two boys.


End file.
